Page 31 of Between Never and Forever
I clench my teeth at his tone, then put my hands on my hips and glare at him.
My outfit is sexy as fuck, but it’s not something I’d wear at the club. Hell, you see more skin just walking down Ocean Drive. Sure, the men’s dress shirt is hanging off one shoulder with only two buttons fastened in the middle, and it’s exposing my electric purple push up bra and my navel, but my black leather short shorts and fishnets cover almost my entire ass. My arms are covered, my back is covered, and the combat boots I plan to wear come to mid-calf.
If anything, I’moverdressed for Miami.
“If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m dressed, then you can go back to your little frat bros and hit up the beach. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the sand you get up your ass will turn into a pearl.”
I say the last sentence with a sweet smile, batting my eyelashes at him, and he tips his head back. He doesn’t say anything, and the longer he breathes in and out at the ceiling without acknowledging me, the angrier I get.
What the hell is he so frustrated about? He’s got no right to police how I dress.
I snatch the pillow off my mattress on the floor and swing it at him, hitting him square in the gut. He grunts and doubles over, hugging the pillow to his body and turning quickly so it rips from my hands. Then, quick as ever, he swings it back and it smacks me right in the face.
The tension is gone before the whoosh of breath leaves my body, and we start to laugh at the same time. When our gazes lock, my excitement for his presence sparks once more.
I can’t fucking believe he’s here in my little rented bedroom in Miami, Florida. Here after showing up at the club while I was performing.
God, it feels like it’s been so much longer than three years.
I fight the urge to shut my eyes against some of the memories that assault me.
I wonder if he’s experienced as much as I have. I wonder how much these past three years have changed him. He looks so different than he did the last time I saw him. Still boyish, but less so. He’s taller. His cheeks aren’t as plump. There’s a smattering of scruff on his jaw and product in his hair. But I still knew who he was the second my eyes landed on him.
He’s still Levi.
When our laughter slows, I drop my pillow back on my mattress and pick up my combat boots. I shoulder check him when I walk past, smirking when he huffs out anouch, then glance at him over my shoulder.
“C’mon, Weenie. We’re going to be late.”
9
I trymy best not to grimace as I glance around the seedy bar, but I’m pretty sure I fail.
“Why are we here?”
Savannah glances over her bare shoulder at me and laughs.
“Why do you look like you just smelled something nasty?”
I widen my eyes. “Because this place smells like something nasty.”
She laughs again, louder this time, and I shake my head. She’s delighted that I’m uncomfortable, and I can’t help but smile. It feels like before she left. Sav always did like making me squirm, and no matter how much I tried to pretend, she could tell it bothered me less than I let on.
I trail her through the bar, keeping my eyes firmly on her shoulders despite the pull to let them fall lower. It’s going to take a lobotomy for me to forget the sight of her topless with just some little plastic flowers on her nipples. I don’t need to add anymore NSFW content to the Savannah folder.
Because the feel of her in my lap...
I grit my teeth and give my head a little shake.
When the guys tricked me into tagging along to that strip club, I was furious. I’ve grown a bit since my days of Bible camp and purity lectures, but the idea of sitting in the audience watching some women get naked on stage still triggered my fight or flight response.
Involuntarily, verses about lust and modesty started cycling through my mind and it gave me an instant headache. I had just started distracting myself with architectural digest articles on my phone when this blast from my past yanked it from my hold and bowled me right over.
I was shocked at first. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Savannah Shaw, alive and well, and smirking at me. The look in her eyes—the one she always used to get when she was purposely trying to irritate me—sparked instant excitement. I wanted to jump up and grab her. I wanted to hug her and hold her and laugh out loud. I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy.
The last time I saw Savannah, I kissed her because I believed I’d never see her again. I spent the entire next year after she’d left dreaming about her. Worrying about her. I would spend my whole study period in the library, just so I could scour the internet for news stories about runaways. I dedicated every mealtime prayer to Savannah, begging God that the next breaking headline wouldn’t be about her. Wishing her safe. Needing her happy. Telling myself that no news was good news.
To see her standing over me with that smirk removed three years of bricks off my chest, and it felt amazing to finally breathe her in. For all of two seconds.
